No Quarter
by ResolutionFromDespair
Summary: After John's death, there really isn't anything that Sam can say to change things. Dean wishes his brother would accept this. Coda to 2.04, sort of.


**A/n:** Written for a challenge on LJ. The prompt was _"So what could you possibly say to me that would make that alright?" Five things Sam said that were wrong, and one that made it okay_. Rated for alcohol use and swearing. Title comes from Led Zeppelin.

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><p>Dean's come face to face with death more often than a coroner in a big city has. He saw it from a distance when he was four years old and he's been carrying it with him for all of his life. The first time he actually came face to face with a rotting corpse, he was nine.<p>

He doesn't like thinking about that, but sometimes he does anyway. Dad had him douse it in lighter fluid, and he did, right after he had swallowed back his vomit, but he didn't throw the match himself. Dad did that. Dad knew fire better than him, and he knew enough to draw Dean close to him as it was burning, and Dean didn't even freak out just then. Or in the Impala. It wasn't until later at night, when he was supposed to be sleeping that he realized that they did that to mom and that's when he started clutching at his sheets and forcing himself not to start shivering even though it was August in Georgia and the air was heavy and wet.

Death doesn't smell like decaying flesh and musty hair, or sound like flies buzzing around a half-eaten body. Death is like a sick, twisted bonfire where only flesh roasts; it's crackling, spitting flames that know his gaze is captivated by them and want to do their best dance because of it.

He doesn't want to be watching them; he wants to get away now. He needs to, except Sam is standing right next to him, and Sam needs him. That's more important right now.

"I'm sorry," Sam says suddenly, his voice choked. "I mean. He was my dad too, but you… you were his son. You're more his legacy than I am."

Dean wants to deny it –Hell, Sam and Dad are more alike personality-wise than he is; the short tempers, the stubborn righteousness that both of them have always held—but damn it, he's right. Dad left him work to do; and he didn't tax Sam with the same burden—

_If you can't save your brother, you're gonna have to kill him_

-and yeah, Dean's his legacy all right. And he doesn't want to be at all; he wants Dad to be here, to tell him what the hell he meant, and to do it himself because Dean will save Sam for as long as he has to, but if he fails, he knows he'll let Dad down, and he doesn't want that, but he'll do it anyway. And he can delay failure as long as he wants, but like the fire, it always catches up.

He stays silent and watches the flames continue their gleeful death-dance, and it seems inevitable that their light is what's going to be illuminating the road ahead.

* * *

><p>"What could you possibly say to make that all right?" he asks, and Sam doesn't answer for a long time. Which is probably good, Dean thinks, because if he tried to stammer out a whole lot of "Dad did it for love" and "He wanted this, Dean," Dean would probably just drive away now and leave his brother standing here on this mountain road in the middle of nowhere.<p>

But Sam is quiet and he's thinking things over now, slow and contemplative, and finally he says, "I don't know, Dean. I don't, and I'm sorry. But I can try."

And maybe that just makes it worse because it's saying out loud what Dean knows; there's no answer to this and there's nothing that anyone can do to make it right. At the moment, all he really wants is for Dad to be back and to tell him everything about his last words and his last moments. He wants Dad to have all the answers, like he seemed to when Dean was younger and he was an infallible god instead of just a father that Dean blindly followed in spite of his mistakes.

Even if he were here, though, Dean knows he wouldn't have them. He'd have some, but not enough.

So he replies, "Yeah, well, I guess that's all any of us can do," and they head back into the Impala in silence, beers abandoned at the side of the road.

* * *

><p>Sam's been walking on eggshells since Dean lit up the obvious link between Dad's death and his recovery. He's been offering to drive more often than not, and sometimes when Dean wakes up in the middle of the night, he gets the idea that Sam's still up and keeping watch. It's weird, and most nights he either ignores him or grunts out a low, "Get to bed, bitch," like he shouldn't be taking that advice.<p>

But when Sam asks, "You okay?" for the millionth time after the zombie hunt, Dean finally snaps, whirling around and staring daggers with enough intensity that they would just fly straight through Sam and be imbedded into the flowery fuchsia wallpaper behind him.

"Sam. Have I broken down crying recently?"

Sam looks startled. "No."

"Am I talking every day about how sad it is that Daddy's gone?"

"No, but-"

"Am I going down to the crossroads to get him back?"

"God, Dean, I hope you're not-"

"So why are you acting like I'm a rusted-out truck with a busted engine?" It's the first damned thing that pops into his head, and Sam looks confused (pretty fucking obvious that someone wasn't an English major) and he elaborates, "I'm not broken, Sam. I'm not damaged goods just because my father went and did a deal for my soul. Stop acting like I am, because if you think you're making anything better? You're wrong."

Sam opens his mouth, about to say something, closes it and pauses, frowning; then says levelly, "You're right. I'm sorry."

There's an unspoken "But..." there, and they both know it, but Sam leaves it unsaid.

So Dean just mutters, "You better be," and moodily goes back to his beer, and it's over a week before they bring up Dad and the giant elephant in the room that he was kind enough to leave behind.

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><p>Led Zeppelin's in the cassette player and <em>No Quarter<em> is blasting through the Impala's admittedly not-up-to-date sound system. That's all normal, and Dean would be glad to just lean back and let sun shine in his face, but Sam's had a brooding look on his face since _Over the Hills and Far Away_, and it's more serious than it should be under the circumstances. They ganked a succubus last night, and managed to tell off a pissed poltergeist the week before. He has nothing to be moody about.

But Dean knows that if he lets it fester it's just going to come back and bite him in the ass, and he's actually in a really good mood right now, and he'd rather not have another face-off in the hotel room if he decides to settle down with a few beers. So, reluctantly, he turns down Plant and Page, and turns to Sam, absentmindedly tapping the steering wheel to the faint beat. "What is it?"

"Huh?" Sam jumps, and looks guilty for no reason that Dean can figure out.

"You had that look on your face. That heavy one. Like you were thinking of going out and killing something and you weren't sure if it was a good idea? So you were pondering it." And okay, maybe the lyrics are kind of sneaking into his mind, but it isn't like Sam wouldn't make a good viking. He's big enough to be Thor, practically.

"It's nothing. And I don't look like that." Sam turns away and stares out the window. It isn't like the middle of Nowhere, Utah is that exciting.

"Nothing? Sammy, you know you can't lie to me. Pining away for that friendly receptionist and her-"

"Dad always used to listen to this."

He didn't expect that. "Yeah? That's cause Led Zeppelin's cool. See, there was a reason neither of us heard Bon Jovi until some misguided classmates lent us their Walkmans."

"No, I mean he listened to it when he was in a good mood. Like when we were leaving somewhere because he had an easy hunt lined up, not because we'd been kicked out of the motel. Or when we'd be out driving, y'know? Not heading somewhere, just. Just going. That was when he listened to this album." Sam pauses, frowning. He still has the pondering look on his face, like he's trying to sort through something too complicated even for him to understand.

Dean takes the moment to jump in. "So? _Houses of the Holy_is a pretty badass album. Makes sense that a man would listen to it when he's feeling badass." He says it with derisiveness, wanting to cut off the conversation with him on top.

Sam, naturally, isn't so fond of the idea. "And you always liked _Led Zeppelin III_. Give me some credit," he adds, and Dean knows his face is betraying his surprise. "I know which is which. I'm just wondering why you chose _Houses of the Holy_. And why your window's rolled up. And why, when we stopped outside of Levan, you took your coffee black."

"Stop it Sam," he says harshly, because it's easy to see where this is heading, and it sure isn't to a happy place. "You're looking for meaning in a pile of crap."

"I never got the windows," Sam continues. "Dad never told me why he drove with them up. I always figured that he was scared that we'd be shot at, or something. We'd probably be safer with them down, though, seeing as they'd just give us a shower of glass to deal with if we ever did end up in a shootout.

"The coffee I never understood either, but it's more explainable, right? To each his own cup. And you like yours with sugar. You always have. Not that I understand that either, but it doesn't matter."

"You're right," Dean says firmly. "It doesn't. So just drop it."

"Don't pretend you're not acting like him," Sam mutters. "Because you are, Dean; we've been hunting obsessively for weeks now, and there's all those small things... do you even realize you're doing it?"

"No. No, I don't, because there isn't anything, Sam. I'm the same person I was a year ago. A month ago."

"Do you really-"

Dean reaches over and cranks up the volume, using Robert Plant's wails to drown out Sam's voice and then, just to drive the point home, he uses his other hand to roll his window all the way down.

(And on a windy day like this, it really _does_feel like it's pulling them back, telling them to just stop and stay for awhile. Dad hated that, he always did, but Dean always drove with the wind in his hair because it feels like it's free, telling him that the road is free too, and he never stopped driving like that when he was alone, and he doesn't know what Sammy means.)

In the next town they stop in, Dean pours three packets of sugar into his coffee and he's not sure why he makes a show out of doing it as Sam comes back from the bathrooms, because it's not like he has anything to prove.

* * *

><p>"Dean, you gotta stop drinking like this."<p>

Dean opens his eyes and sees Sam standing over him, scowling. The half-full bottle of Jack that Dean was making love to last night is in his hands. He still has that same righteous expression that he wore when he was ten years old and lecturing Dean about his study habits; twelve, when he first caught Dean smoking. Fourteen, when he told Dean to go to college and that he could handle Dad. And when he was eighteen, of course; again about the college, except that was worse and why is he bothering to think about it at this hour in the morning?

"Gimme back my booze," he mutters, rolling over and pressing his face into his pillow hard enough to feel the outline of the pistol beneath. "Or get a shot glass, if you really want some."

"I don't want some!" Sam snaps, angry all of a sudden; it really is like he's a teenager all over again. "I want you to stop wanting it, and to stop pretending that you're not-"

He breaks off. There's a heartbeat of a pause, and then Dean hears footsteps heading in the general direction of the sink. And okay, maybe he is kind of hung over, but he can still move quicker hung over than most folks can stone sober, and he's standing next to Sam a second after he tossed the covers away, clenching his brother's wrist. "I paid for this with my own swindled dollars, Sam. Give it."

"No. You can't -Dean, I know... I know that with everything that's been happening..."

He can't stand it, watching Sam struggle to sugarcoat the hard, harsh truth that's been slowly eating away at him ever since It happened. "You know that Dad, as in our father, is dead? Think I'm drinking because I can't handle the mourning? Really, Sam? Is that what they taught you in Saturday morning psych at Stanford? A few classes and you think that you know everything about me?"

Sometimes when he responds with anger Sam's eyes go all dewy and puppy-like and he looks at him with even more oozing sympathy, and it gets to be so sickening that Dean can't stand it at all and he ends up yelling worse than he is now.

This isn't one of those times.

He sees Sam's face harden, his eyes darken. "No," he says evenly. "I guess I don't know you at all. The Dean that I thought I knew wouldn't be wasting his time drowning himself in booze because of his dad's death. He'd be better than that."

Sam shoves the liquor into Dean's hands. "But I guess since you're not him, you might as well take this, right?"

With that, he heads for the door, and slams it as he exits the hotel room. Dean waits and listens, but there's not telltale engine roar. Either Sam is walking down to the 7-11 to get some crappy coffee, or he's standing outside the door seething. Either way, neither of them wants to see each other, not now.

Sitting on the bed, Dean lifts the bottle to his lips and takes a drink.

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><p>Sam comes back an hour later looking guilty as hell, a coffee for Dean and a latte for himself. Dean's gotten dressed and showered, but that's about it; he couldn't bring himself to go out and get something more sobering than water. He's buzzed already, and while he'd risk going out at night when the roads are empty and no one can see his face, it's too risky now when he's supposed to be an FBI agent.<p>

His brother sits down on his own bed that creaks with the same sound as a million other motel resting places across America. Without speaking he reaches over to hand him the drink. Dean grunts a halfhearted "Thanks," knowing that even though he can act pretty normal when he's only had a little to drink -a few mouthfuls of the Jack; nothing more- Sam can probably smell it on his breath, and there really isn't any point in pretending like he wasn't boozing before noon. The coffee tastes good, though; three sugars, and eve if its taste doesn't exactly mesh well with the whiskey, it at least makes his mouth feel less like it's stuffed with cotton.

Sam sips at his latte, staring at his hands. When he speaks, it's in a low voice, and he doesn't really sound sure of what he's saying. "Dean. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have..." he rubs his eyes with the palm of his hand, and when he's done he faces Dean eye-to-eye. "I can't do this on my own. I know you're mourning -and don't say you aren't Dean; I was wrong before, and you know that I know you better than anyone around- and fine. I can't make you talk to me, and even if I could, maybe that wouldn't even make anything better. I wish I could, Dean. I want to. But I can't, and all I can tell you is that I don't know how to do this alone. The hunt's all I got now, and I'm not ready to take it on by myself. I need you."

"I needed you when you left for Stanford and that didn't mean jack shit. I needed Dad; look where that got me."

The words come out of his mouth unbidden; he feels as surprised as Sam looks. Drinking doesn't usually loosen his tongue that much; maybe he should cut down a bit.

Sam recovers quickly, though Dean can tell that he doesn't even try to hide the hurt in eyes. "Yeah. You're right. And I'm sorry. I am, more than you'll ever know."

Sorry doesn't do shit, Dean thinks, but he doesn't say it. Sam just reads it off his face, which is probably more expressive with alcohol loosening the features. "Talk to me," he pleads. "I know I don't deserve it, but I don't know how to help you. Just tell me. Please."

"I don't need help!" he snaps, and he should be holding his tongue, but he can't. He's held it every other time, and this is too much; he can't stand it. Like he's a kid back in first grade being told that words make answers, not fists; like there's something wrong with him. "I'm fucking fine. Right as rain."

And Sam, because Sam is a bitch like that, places his latte on the floor and comes to sit next to Dean, and it's all close, not like it should be. Everything should be solved by drinking, Dean thinks; that'd make life so much better.

"Look at me and tell me you're fine."

It's the tone as much as the words that causes Dean to turn to Sam with his fist flying, but of course it's noon, maybe, and there's booze on his breath, while all Sam has been drinking is caffeine. He deflects the blow easily. Then, as though this fucking thing couldn't get any worse, he pins Dean's hands behind him in an embrace that's practically a hug. "Dean. Breathe."

He is. He's breathing, harsh and heavy, like sobs, and maybe they are because Sam lets go of one of his hands and instead lays it on the back of his head. "Hey. I got you, Dean."

Sam is big and awkward, but he sags and lets him hold him up, and listens to his words and hopes to all Heaven that things will get better like he's promising. They can't get any worse. They can't, because this is the lowest he's ever been, hugged to his brother and sobbing his eyes out like a sensitive soul who just watched Titanic. And it isn't like he has any cause to. It's the alcohol, he thinks hazily, it's making him like this. He should go cold turkey for awhile.

(When he wakes up that evening, Sam wrapped around him, he throws out all the bottles. They don't mention it ever again, but Dean figures it counts as an apology and a thanks all in one. The road ahead is still endless, but somehow it doesn't seem as bleak.)


End file.
